Dust to Dust (The Playa Sucks)

About this track

“Dust to Dust (The Playa Sucks)” is a sharp-edged roast of influencer culture, plug-and-play camps, and wellness-washed decadence on the Playa. It’s part love letter, part intervention, calling out the carbon scams, VIP tents, and rich-kid junk while still ending with the classic burner mantra: it was better last year.

Lyrics

Welcome to Black Rock City.
Population: 70,000 egos and one giant match. (yaaaah!)

They came for the ’Gram, left their brains at home,
Bombshell bras on a dust-swept roam.
Latex boots in apocalypse heat,
Worshipping tech bros for a VIP seat.
Chokers tight, and pupils wide,
They sparkle hard with no soul inside.
Sniffin’ GHB in the LED stew,
Snappin’ pics with the Mayan Warrior crew. (yaaaah!)

This ain't the desert dream you say it is,
It's a rich kid cleanse and a startup biz.
We’re choking on dust and irony,
While you “find yourself” in luxury.
Burning Man, you carbon scam,
Just a wellness retreat with an Instagram.
It’s a thousand-dollar porta-loo trust fall —
And bro, it sucks for the rest of us all. (pshh!)

No bikes, no clue, no water in hand,
Just bear-guy-n dropouts lost in the sand.
“Wo ist die techno?” they shout at the sky,
But Function ain’t comin’ — don’t ask why.
Shazam is banned, their shame is real,
They only respect that German feel.
Passed out cold near Robo Heart,
Whining that Berlin had better art. (yaaaah!)

They flew in on jets with organic fear,
Sippin’ dust martinis while chanting “we’re here.”
RVs parked like mobile ver-sigh,
Boasting how “nothing” feels so high.
Fiji showers and vibe butlers near,
Wearing Moon Boots worth a fiscal year.
“This is raw,” they say with a grin,
From behind designer oxygen. (ugh!)

“Don’t talk to me unless your art car’s LEED-certified.”
“I only gift crypto vibes.”
“That’s not dust, it’s ancestral data.”
“My emotional support drone has solar panels.”
“This dust is micro dosing me.”
“You can’t manifest without a cactus enema.”
“That’s not a tent — it’s a decompression pod.”
“I saw Elon. He said my aura was scalable.”

In ‘96 it was dust and fire,
Now it’s influences building a brand empire.
Rusted wagons, Reno plates,
Cursing virgins at the gate.
They hate your lights, they hate your sound,
They miss when weirdos ran the town.
“Songs need guitars!” they yell mid-spliff,
Then flick you off with a tribal glyph. (yaaaah!)

This ain’t the primal scream you claim it be,
It's Coachella with worse hygiene. (ugh!)
You’re bonding through dust and LED,
While flexing your tent on NBC.
Burning Man, you Fyre Fest clone,
With a thousand influencers moaning “I'm home.”
It’s a TED Talk wrapped in tribal funk —
Just call it what it is: rich kid junk. (pshh!)

They were summoned by the moons of Mars,
With hemp-seed beats and healing scars.
Bathing in vibes, skipping the soap,
Microdosing and hugging hope.
They call it “dusting a nut” out here,
While smearing coconut oil on each ear.
Preachin’ about plastic’s sin —
Then snortin’ ket off a port-a-john bin.

Heard the rumor in a rave in neese,
Bought one ticket, no release.
Showed up lost, no food, no plan,
Dreams of Jamie XX in a dusty van.
Croissant in hand, burnt to hell,
Chain-smoked cigs with a patchouli smell.
“Zis is Burning Man?” they ask, confused,
As their hopes slowly bruised. (yaaaah!)

Pack it in! Pack it out!
But you forgot your Eurotrash doubt!
Goggles on! Morals gone!
Seven days, your brain is pawned!
Radical what?! Radical where?!
You burned a man — now you don’t care! (ugh!)

So gather round the flame,
Let’s burn away the shame.
You came for truth and left with swag,
You found your soul… and lost your bag.
Dust to dust, and hype to hype —
You came for the burn, but didn’t expect the bite.

It was better last year.
It’ll be worse next year.
See you in the dust.
(yaaaah!)
My Cal Out!